Glimpses
by inkfiction
Summary: Swan Queen drabbles/drabbletts based on random lyric prompts.


**Title:** Glimpses (1/3) — Swan Queen drabbles/drabbletts?  
**Fandom:** Once Upon a Time  
**Pairing:** Swan Queen (Emma Swan/Regina Mills)  
**Spoilers/Warning:** Not really. Some angst, maybe.  
**Summary:** Random drabbles based on random lyric prompts  
**Disclaimer:** This is purely fictional. I own none of it.

_A/N: Prompts were __(forcefully extracted from)__ given by Beanz. I was trying out my hand at something new and kinda forgot in the process what it really was. But I think these drabbles work fine on their own. These first three are from Emma's POV. They are not interconnected._

_**1. Days like this, I want to drive away, pack my bag and watch your shadow fade**_

The first time hadn't been sweet and romantic like the books and stories made it out to be. It had been hard and dirty. And heartbreaking. Even as you kissed her lips hard enough to make them bruise, even as she dug her fingernails in your arm deep enough to burn. Your victory, your defeat, steeped in something akin to sorrow, tasted like expensive lipstick, and left dark, bruise-colored stains down your neck and onto your soul. You both went back home battered, shaken, and told yourself it was a spur of the moment, one-time thing.

Then the moment came again and again after that one time became just one more, and just one more. The places shifted but the dance that the two of you had become such experts at stayed the same. It was always hard and fast, and over too soon, leaving you feeling depraved and dirty. It didn't matter whether it was behind her rose bushes and the thorns dug deep into your leather jacket and pierced your skin, or in your Bug and the gear shift left a perfectly round bruise in the small of her back. You knew afterwards that she would not offer to apply antiseptic on the scores of thorn-pricks, and you would never dare to apply balm in deepening circles on her bruise. Familiarity bred contempt, and yours was already well established.

But that did not mean that sometimes you did not just want to pack your bags, grab her and kiss her hard and with tongue in the middle of the town square for the whole town to see, and leave Storybrooke, honking a cheery tune on your trusted Bug.

[…]

_**2. Show me, by the way you hold me, way that you control me, speed me up and slow me**_

She's an expert, an artist, a connoisseur. It's not a matter of using toys in the bedroom or imagining scenarios and roleplaying that gets to you, it's _her_. All of her. She's a living, breathing weapon of massive sex appeal and she knows just how and when and how much to push the buttons that make you go weak in your knees. Oh, and destroy perfectly good underwear. It's not even anything blatant, you're not the type to go for the pomp-and-show approach to sex. No, it's the littlest things.

The raised eyebrow, the hooded glance, the tongue in cheek, the half-smirk, the low-toned laugh that thrums deep inside you. A lip bitten softly, a lip slowly licked, hands splayed, fingers curled. It is the lightest touch, the softest kiss, the faintest breath. It is the crossed legs and tapping impatience of heels.

It is her arms around your waist that make your heart beat slow and contentedly. It is her light perfume that dissolves in your pores and enters your bloodstream, and the feel of her skin which you want to inhale. It is her voice in your ear which makes your heart bump wildly, painfully against your ribcage all of a sudden, and her pointing finger whose bidding you gladly do.

It is the crashing oblivion late at night and the crook of her neck, the silk of her hair, and the arm holding you close. It is the lips that whisper _I love you_ before kissing your eyes close every night. It is what she is.

[…]

_**3. Her lips are dripping honey, and she'll sting you like a bee**_

Sometimes you think it's eerie how apt you have become at translating _her._ But then the time you spent thinking, hating, hoping, daydreaming had to amount to something, didn't it?

She smiles, wide and dazzling, but ain't nothing sweet about it. It's like the beautiful, glittering skin of a poisonous snake right before its fangs sink into you.

It's dizzying, her proximity, her habit of getting into your personal space. Does she know the effect she can have when she does that? Of course she does, you tell yourself. It's disorienting, intoxicating. And you can't help yourself falling a little deeper every time it happens. It's like walking the edge of disaster, fascinated by the wreckage around you. It's beautiful and destructive, and you're addicted. Since when did you become such a junkie? Every next encounter is a thrill down your spine, a jolt in your veins. And then she smiles, wide, dazzling, and you're lost.

[…]

_A/N: Your thoughts and suggestions are always welcome._


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